Supernatural Advents Calendar 2009
by Leila1x1980
Summary: The Spirits that I called…
1. Door 1

Today I've recieve an awesome present, which brought some tears up in my eyes. _Vonnie836_ made it to me ... the translation of our Advents Calendar this year, and now we can show it all Supernatural Fans, who don't speak German *smirkes wide*

We can't thank her enough or tell her what that means to us. We only can give her the biggest *Winchester Monster Hug* ever *gg*

Honey, you may regret this and hate us later for all this ;) but you have so much work to do *rofl* there are some days left ... but you wanted it that way *many kisses*

_Mia and Leila_ :D :D

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_**D**_**_edicated to_ VONNIE836 **

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Welcome to the

**Supernatural Advents Calendar 2009**

By

Mia & Leila

Following an old tradition, a short episode in the life of the Winchester hidden behind a little door will be revealed to you daily.

In the role of _Sam_ is now _Mia_ and in the one of _Dean_ is yours truly _Leila_

Have Fun and to all a Merry Christmas time, wishing you from the heart, your scribes, who sit by the fire place with a stocking cap on and conjure stories.

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**Spoilers:**_ Season 1 – 5_

**Summary:**_ The Spirits that I called…_

**Disclaimer:** _Santa Kripke is and stays (to bad) the only Lord over Supernatural; once again we only borrowed the boys for Christmas to decorate with them._

_

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**"Door One"**

_Dezember 2009 _

...

At times small smoke clouds, a little bit of ash and an occasional tremor were all that announced the eruption of a volcano. The gray fog could hand for month, sometimes years over the summit, a warning messenger, quick forgotten, but at one time the veil would become thicker, floating spreading out and surrounding everything with its tacky arms. Slowly...creeping and yet unstoppable.

And mildly put, the air was just as thick here; you could have cleanly cut it into slices with one of the many knives of their basic equipment.

The other one was pissed – completely pissed – his lips pressed together to a small line – not a good sign. The silence that lasted for almost two hours wasn't any less meaningful.

And what the hell was he going to say about that? He didn't feel any different. Instead of slowly defrosting after those wonderfully relaxing 120 minutes of verbal iciness, his internal temperature shot up so high, the thermometer threatened to burst – boiling point.

If this „offended liverwurst"-game continued on like this, there would be fatalities - just to clarify, this wasn't a prediction, but a promise – brother or not, slowly he had enough. The sudden movement beside him tore him out of his dark musing and as if his travel companion listened in, he did exactly the wrong thing. Or the right thing – depending on the point of view and outlook.

An arm lifted up – 208 F.

A hand stretched out – 210 F.

Fingers, who busied themselves on the radio power button – more than enough and the boiling point was abruptly exceeded. A slight glow turned into a boiling surge. "Leave it on", quietly said, yet a clear warning within it - and like always it was like he was talking the a damned wall.

_- Click - _

The booming hum from the loudspeakers was suddenly severed, leaving a vacuum of silence. The unspoken "And if not...", hung provocatively in the air.

Okay, this could get dirty.

Very dirty.

With a jerk, screeching tires and a protesting, howling engine the black vehicle came to a halt on the side of the road, red break lights – a perfect mirror of the anger in the eyes of the one. The mouth already open, any rude eruption died down, when complaining honking von outside made it clear to the driver inside that sudden breaking in the middle of flowing traffic wasn't really a good idea. Okay, so that is if two vehicles in the middle of nowhere on an otherwise completely abandoned country road could be called ‚traffic'.

The internally screamed answer to the other driver, which went through the mind of the honked at driver, would have driven the heat of shame into the ugly face of any demon inhabiting the underworld. But why waste any of the internal rage, if one could use it in a different place? The attention directed itself once again to more pressing issues. The leather of the seat protested noisily, as if to issue a silent protest against the inevitable, when the big body in it turned towards the other.

For a moment complete silence ruled. The heater made a strained attempt to deice the frosty atmosphere – but in vain – ice flowers grew in and outside the car window, further cool harbingers of the continuous closing in of the snow clouds in the evening sky.

The temperature plummeted another few degrees, when four little words made it more than clear, what the standing of things in the house of Winchester was.

"Out of my car!"


	2. Door 2

**"Door Two"**

...**  
**

Sam heard he words „Out of my car" exactly twice in his life. And both times they came from John – which increased the effect to hear them from Dean by a multitude.

If he wasn't so angry, he would have felt the stitches of the knife, which wrecked havoc in his heart. Instead he only sent silent sparks across the short distance to his brother, grabbed very slowly at the radio and turned on up to full volume.

He ignored the irate "Dammit Sam!" opened the passenger side door and put his feet exactly into a giant, halfway frozen puddle. He got out and closed the door without changing his expression.

It cost him much effort to keep it together. He was boiling, would have loved to choke the ass, or beat him up. A brawl, like they had so many times before – mostly with him as the looser and Dean as the one, who started the whole thing. But they overcame that stage a long time ago.

Both of them couldn't put into words what troubled them and every sentence came out wrong. Every second together stretched their nerves more and more. Beatings wouldn't have been effective anymore to settle the pent up emotion of despair, grief, fear and death. Not that they didn't try.

Until it escalated.

It whooshed painfully in Sam's ears, when the car drove off with the engine roaring, the humming bass silenced and the tires on the asphalt nothing but a far off whisper.

Left behind was only he in the loneliness, which even together, they couldn't hardly bear anymore.

Sam closed the zipper on his jacket and pushed his fisted hands into the pockets. He had a stretch of good ten miles ahead of him – maybe even more.

"Wanker", he pushed out bitterly and watched how his breath formed small clouds in front of his face. Great. Frozen over moisture and it smelled like snow – awesome. Dean couldn't have chosen a better moment to throw his brother out the door like a street dog. That was partially his own fault didn't matter. He just wanted to be pissed and forget everything about it was too painful. It would end up at the people they lost.

Not much later Sam felt the first snowflakes on his hair. They settled down as wet, tiny spots on his brown strands and collected long enough to glide down his neck as large drops. The goose bumps on Sam's arms spread to his back. With every sweep of the wind the cold penetrated right through his not made for this weather jacket, making him shiver. He was going to kill Dean!

He crunched his nose up indignantly and buried the before mentioned just a little bit more into his collar. His head started to get foggier with every yard he walked. He should have eaten something – or at least drank. Or taken his cell phone.

Or, or, or.

Many thousand things he should have done and didn't swirled through his mind, yet they couldn't be organized into a clear train of thought any longer.

His fingernails dug into the numb flesh of his icy hands, as he continued to trot through the snowy night.


	3. Door 3

**"Door Three"**

The music roared at full volume out of the overworked loudspeakers and tore on the eardrums and overwrought nerves.

"Shit!" Dean screamed in frustration, screamed the windshield into the ground in a short moment of lost self control.

His fist hit the steering wheel once. And a second time. It hurt, but that served him right, hurting his baby because of it was less justified. He was idiot, both of them were, but he couldn't change this now, rather would the fire freeze under Lucifer's rear.

Damn crap! He couldn't just leave Sam behind in the middle of the night out in nowhere. Maybe he was an ass, but he wasn't an unscrupulous sadist and now it got more than just a little cold. Just finishing the thought it started to quietly crackle on the car roof, small ice crystals beat against the glass, like they were begging for entrance and suddenly the environment was drenched with small hail – completely awesome. Shitty mood and with it even shittier weather.

His foot slowly slid of the exhilarator, the vehicle slowing down and yet it didn't stop.

He glanced at his side, grazing the empty seat and the back on the floor below it. Dean remember the last few days, the last few hours and the urge hit his brother more than once, remembered the nasty insults, screamed accusations and everything else that stood in between the lines.

Heaven – Sam was exactly like John, stubborn as hell, unwavering and selfish. In the past fire fought fire and Dean almost burned to dust. Now – years later – nothing changed, except of the fact that now Dean somehow stepped into the place of his father.

What a damn bastard of brother.

Only a second ago the flames of wrath were only a small pile of red glowing embers, now they burned anew, cinching every compassion and burning the concern inside him to ash – like so much else lately.

Fingers cramped around the steering wheel and without further thinking, he pushed the gas pedal down completely. Dean didn't care about the spinning wheels, the poor vision or the howling engine. Shit on it! Sam knew the way and it would help the arrogant twerp to clear his head. Where was the brilliant genius from the past, who had a solution for everything, even if it appeared impossible? Maybe someone drove by and would stop for a hitchhiker. Mile after mile the black shadow raced from the evening into the coming night, leaving the other further and further behind him.

_**~sss~**_

The exhausted crackle of the cooler was the only noise, mixed with the steady trickling of the snow on the metal of the car. The noisy radio made room for pensive silence some time ago. Dean sat – finally arrived at his destination – leaned back in his seat and watching the weightless dance of the flakes in the light of the headlights, saw the change in the environment from sad gray to untouched white. Almost as if covering the sins of mankind with a shroud.

The house was dark and lonely, only the light beside the entrance was on, a small welcome for the brothers. Sighing Dean's cold fingers closed around the door knob, only after some hesitation letting the icy air and its frosty messenger into the interior of the vehicle. He remained for a moment, enjoying the complete silence surrounding him, listening in on the total absence of any signs of civilization or life in general. Everything was like wrapped in cotton. Rest and peace laying their soothing arms around him and drawing him outside, making his feet seek a different way then the one into the warm house.

Dean drew his jacket closed, burying himself deep in the set up collar and his hands into the pockets and ran off across the field without looking back again.


	4. Door 4

**"Door Four"**

The ice cold, snow, hail and wind left Sam changed into a lump of ice, not only on the outside – but also cooling down his mood. He avoided thinking of the upcoming confrontation, while walking soaked and frozen stiff through the snow. He couldn't feel his feet anymore, but that wasn't really amazing, as tennis shoes generally weren't waterproof and snow usually had the tendency to melt.

Sighing he pushed some strands of hair of his forehead and grimaced, when because of the movement the skin on his nuckles broke.

The blizzard made it almost impossible to know where he was and how much longer he would have to walk through this godforsaken area. He knew the sawed of tree stump, jogged by it many times, when his dad sent them for training in the morning, yet it was never important to him how far away from the house the tree was. His fixture had been a different spot.

Why did they always have let it get to a catastrophe around Christmas? Why did they always have to fight loss during the winter months?

This time Sam didn't sniff up his nose because of a cold.

_**~sss~**_

When the house – the Impala parked in front – finally came into sight the frozen through Winchester let out an audible breath. Good ten miles brought him back to his usual level o self control, yet not far enough to feel ready to face Dean.

He weighted his option, maybe it would be better to sit in the car, yet danger remained in the back of his head. If he fell asleep – no key meant no heat – then the trip would have been for nothing and Dean would have to try and dig a hole in the frozen ground tomorrow, or get comfortable by a funeral pyre.

Stumbling Sam reached the unlocked door and saved himself into the warmth. There was a small fire in Bobby's fire place, the temptation to add a few logs was great – yet Sam trusted the old gas heater, which would immerse even their room in the upper level in a comfortable temperature.

He could turn always turn around and come back here if Dean occupied the room already.

With squeaking shoes and leaving puddles of water behind he dragged himself upstairs, staggered through the door and belly plunged onto the bed. Awesome. No demonblood withdrawal, only complete exhaustion..

Sam made an attempt to peel out of the jacket, yet his neck and shoulder area were so tense, he buried his head in the pillow, laid his hands above his head and closed his eyes.

Everything else could wait until tomorrow.

Maybe then Bobby would be here also…

Maybe they would find some weird way to get along. The argument was lying in his stomach for some time now.

Dean would survive another night... on the other hand, he could take the first step for a once.

It didn't take long before Sam fell into a completely confused and restless sleep.

...


	5. Door 5

Thanks again to **Vonnie836** ... it's amazing and magnificent how fast she translates, that we can puplish the English edition almost simultaneously with the German version.

*big hugs again and again*

_Mia & Leila _;D

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**"Door Five"**

The snow underneath his soles creaked, his breath came out of his mouth in small smoke clouds and the skin on his face burned underneath the ice fingers of the night frost. Still Dean felt good; strangely clear, just like the night sky above him now was. Small sparks blinked high above him, every star a lost soul that greeting the ones left behind. He felt a painful tug on his heart at the thought and moved on into the here and now, to the ones, who were still on his side – or at least should be.

His legs carried him back, automatically knew the way that he could have followed blindly. Here was his home, here he felt alive and save.

As he turned onto the small path to Bobby's house, he met up with the halfway snowed over tracks of his brother, or better the one's of Bigfoot. Sam finally arrive. A slightly elongated snake line in the snow told him, it hadn't only been the Impala that had problems taking the icy curve into the drive way right.

A brash smirk moved over his expression, but hurriedly disappeared again at the thought of the new confrontation immediately ahead of him. Dean had enough of arguing, he was tired and exhausted and he hated the imbalance between them, which sooner or later would bring both of them down. Only this time it would less likely just result in scraped elbows and knees.

There was no light on in the house, yet the slightly swaying tracks lead to the entrance – good, Sam was in the warmth. But Dean didn't necessarily felt the urge to follow his example and retreated to where no one would make accusations, were there was no Arguing – to the quiet hiding place that his black lady offered to him.

Dean sat there… minutes, hours – who knew, occasionally turning on the engine, as to not accidentally freeze to death under the old blanket from the trunk and mused, slowly turning circles in his thoughts and finally exhaustedly sighing. His tired gaze again and again moved to the empty seat by his side, seeing Sam beside him, the Sam from the past – his little brother, the brother, who now was way too big.

The half below the passenger seat lying bag suddenly appeared without thinking in his lap – Sam's laptop. As he moved it beside him, the device slipped slightly out of the partially open bag. Awesome – not, now Sam would think, he was once again accessing the Asian site with the special landscape pictures.

He pushed it back in with a grin and only incidentally saw the corner of a photograph spark out of a small side pocket. Only hesitant did he pull it out and looked embarrassed on the faded image of his own childhood. One of the few Photographs that existed and one of the more special ones, if one looked at the two laughing faces on it.

Brothers - family.

His fingers couldn't move away from the piece of worn paper, moved unconsciously again and again over the contures.

He owned this picture also; thought Sam didn't know it...

Very slowly he bent forward, felt around under the seat, searched and found a small, wrapped in protective paper, package.

So long ago...a lifetime.

Shaky fingers carefully loosened the piece of string that kept everything together – maybe even him – moved over soft leather, which appeared from it and over closed pages.

Still unsure if to open it, something sparked in the rear mirror and tore Dean out of his thoughts. The shining head lights announced the return of the master of the house. The younger man could officially see the wrinkled forehead in front of him, because without a doubt the living shadow in this vehicle wouldn't stay unnoticed.

Rattling doors, nodded greeting and a knowing glance from his best friend completed the feeling of being at home. One couldn't hide from family. Really strange how Bobby became the head, the one, who needed only the blink of an eye to unveil lies and to tear down every wall, only because he was the wisest and smartest of them, the one to whom all looked up, the one they respected and loved like a father.

"Would you quit staring holes in the air and help an old man to get out of this damn car?" Cursing tore and tugged the older man on his rolling mount – the smaller edition – before the younger one hurried to his rescue.

Minutes later found the grumbling freight loaded and ready to drive off, the new, handicapped adjusted coach locked and everyone ready for the return to the home stove. To hide in the Impala wasn't an option anymore, because Bobby had serious problems moving over the snowy ground. Without asking Dean took over the rudder, throwing the book he had jammed underneath his arm into Bobby's lab and labored with his load through the few yards to the house – relief was urgently needed here.

Panting, he pushed the older man inside, carefully looking around the corner and letting out a relieved breath, as he found the living room empty.

"What happened boy and where is Sam" Quietly but none the less forcible.

"How about a beer? I could use one…" with those words Dean stormed out of the room, not ready for the dressing down that would follow, or the explanations or… _oh damn_.

He stepped quietly over to the window, hid from the answers in a foolish manner in the dark kitchen and was thankful that Bobby seemed to leave it at this, at least for the moment.

The messy, from sleep still tottering figure, which right there before him mirrored in the window, was all that had been missing. So didn't do anything then stay quiet, hopping that they would simply overlook him.


	6. Door 6

**"Door Six"**

Sam's hunger finally got him out of bed, which by now was no longer a comfortable place. With much trouble he was able to dress in warm, dry clothes, yet the damage was done. He felt like he got run over by a train and could hardly move his neck, at the same time his nose ran and he contributed to the annual increase in tissue consumption.

Sam watched the figure, which was standing by the window with hesitation, not noticing that he was given the same analysis, while he stood with his hands in his pant pockets and shrugged up shoulders. Just like a beaten puppy.

My God, it was short before Christmas and they had nothing better to do and beat each others heads in!

For once, couldn't they spend the Celebration of Love like normal brothers? His stomach contracted and as an escape he blamed hunger. Hurriedly he pulled a slice of bread out of the bag, walked to the door and paused.

Dean didn't move an inch.

"Sorry" Sam mumbled in Dean's direction and didn't exactly know what he meant by that. His showing up, their argument…the situation? Dean could choose from all of it. First of all he needed some warmth urgently, while thought about all this.

If only they wouldn't let their emotions boil up this high…

Quietly Sam pushed into the living room, found it empty and wondered where Bobby disappeared to. With his wheel chair there was no way for him to win a price, if it came to hiding.

He sat down on the couch, the crumbly slice in his hand, pushed his feet under the worn blanket and leant back. The first quiet minutes since they arrived here. The first quiet minutes in weeks. They were trying to escape…from one place to the next, from one case to the next. Everything just to avoid getting this feeling of helplessness.

Even this feeling was calling him now, while Sam nibbled on his food. The hunger had left him long ago, just as sudden as it came on.

He laid the piece of bread away with a sigh and stretched his legs and paused. Carefully pushing the wrinkles in the blanket apart, he stared at a book bound in leather.

Bobby's? Wouldn't amaze him, the old man was running out of room, other then the sleeping place of his two pseudo nephews.

Curiosity grabbed the youngest Winchester.

_**~sss~**_

Dean listened to the quiet shuffling of his brother, who obviously was seeking the warmth of the fire place, the quiet squeaking of the broken couch springs when he sat down, then a rustle – the old blanket and silence. Only occasionally a small drop of rosin exploded in the fire, which licked with crackling fire tongues on his freshly added nourishment.

Outside the snowing had started anew, more densely this time. The flakes whirled against the glass, in which Dean watched the flicker from the living room lost in thought - whirled back and forth, just like everything in his head.

Only few yards made up the border between loneliness and…oh yes, family.

'_Sorry'_ – It saddened him just as much, but saying it didn't make it better, or the past undone, didn't make both their mistakes forgotten and didn't take the pain of loss from them.

They had to talk, urgently – but neither of them was ready and another night would go by with hours of pushing away the pictures of drooling hellhounds, who smelled of blood and death, to ignore the feeling of the foul breath in his neck and especially of seeing the corpses of people, who besides Bobby, where closest to them go up in flames.

Fire...

- Crack – another piece of wood broke in the heat, startling Dean and making him look irritated at himself in the mirror image of the window glass – dark rings around the eyes, pale, even here in the yellow gleaming twilight it was more than clear and a scrap over the eye, which would have made a boxer turn green in envy.

Life could end so fast, the ticket to hell already in the hand, only waiting until the conductor came by to throw one in front of the next train. Succinctly said, sometimes life really stank.

With this glorious insight and his crookedly smirking likeness, which obviously agreed wholeheartedly with this, he turned around, walked the short way to the sliding door, leant against the frame and quietly observed the silhouette of the brown mop of hair, which leaned crookedly against the backrest, face toward the fire.

"I'm sorry too…" to quietly to really be heart, yet still said and even meant.

With this Dean turned and noiselessly walked the steps up to their room, in his back the dancing demons of past and present.

_**~sss~**_

Sam opened the first page slowly, seeing nothing but blank paper and turned once again.

Again nothing. Only a white page, which seemed to shine squarely in the dark.

Only three pages later was a small glued in picture to be discovered, which even in its outline looked familiar to him. His heart jumped a little, stopped for a second and started to race off, like it was trying to run a marathon.

He almost guessed his copy was the only one of the picture, but it wasn't possible. The picture he owned had worn of corners and had been folded three times to always fit in a pocket – this one was worn too, but without folds.

Without trying the corners of his mouth moved up to a small smile. It was his only anchor, when life guided him in the direction of loneliness or despair. The fact that somewhere out there was someone, who he was important to.

Someone, he could always call.

Someone, he could trust.

Thoughtful Sam touched the image of his childhood, felt the sharp edges against his skin. Beneath the photograph was only one word written in Dean's handwriting- "Family"

When did they loose all of this? When became family two brothers, who each wanted to make it on their own. Each insisted on his own point of view without compromise.

Consciously slow he closed the cover of the book and stroked over the leather. This here was something private that was none of his business. It wasn't a journal like dad's, which promised help or advice for any supernatural problem.

It was ...

Well, what was it really?

Sam chewed on his lower lip, which by now was dry and cracked and reacted to the contact with his canine teeth with too much sensitivity to be comfortable. It wasn't right to sniff around in Dean's things.

But he wanted to know.

It was the small voice in the back of his head, which urged him so much, it made him dizzy. Sam put the book back on the couch, right into the hollow that had formed right behind his bent legs and stared into the flames in the fire place.

Right or wrong was something he thought about a lot lately. Unfortunately it didn't matter at all, whatever he did – he had a born talent for always doing the wrong thing or making a situation worse and with it getting himself into more trouble. Like a scorpion, who stings itself to death, if it gets into inescapable danger.

Seemed like his own stinger didn't get him right (he couldn't even do this right!) and he was only paralyzed, not killed by his own poison.

Maybe it would have been better.

Maybe.

Sam managed the impossible acrobatic of turning around on the couch and felt for the book. What if it wasn't only him, who missed his family?

He needed clarity.

Moaning and despite the protesting shoulder muscles, he stretched his arm, turning on the small lamp on the crowded table and began to read.


	7. Door 7

Hi, thank's to everyone who reads this calendar - it's so crazy to see our story in this foreign language ... and I can tell you, it's not easy to translate our German writing - it's difficult, and I adore Vonnie for her awesome work to play with our words.

_*hugs*  
_

_Mia and Leila _

Okay, so here it is ...

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**"Door Seven"**

_How does one start something like this?_

_I have no idea, it was never my thing, more that of my little geek brother._

_But one thing is clear, I have exactly 143 Tads or 3432 hours – but how would count this so exact – and I think it is time that I tell you some things, try to leave some of me behind, even if it doesn't seem like much, because I don't have much, except of the Impala. It's actually pretty scary, if you look at it closely. There will be only a name left when I go…a small echo in between many others._

_I know you are trying everything to save my but, but I know just as surely that I will stop you. God help me, I will stop you…_

_Yeah, this is the stand of things and now I sit here and hold this pen in my hands and think about what the hell I should write._

_How does one start something that will end soon?_

_I have a thousand things in my head – pictures, names, stories and events, some important, most not – things, you don't know, which no one knows anymore, because no one is left…_

_When I really think about it, it isn't that easy to remember a time, when you didn't exist, weren't part of my life, my responsibility._

_Yeah, okay, how does one start something that will end soon, if not at the beginning and the moment, when my existence as much loved only child received a nine month ultimatum_...

_So here is Dean Winchester's version of:_

_**There comes something marching**_

_**Or...**_

_**- A big day for a still very little brother - **_

_(Hah, little brother, don't say that I don't have talent, the title by itself is totally rich) _

_As of today it has been exactly 25 years, 7 months and 11 days since I met you for the first time and with it became a big brother. _

_At the moment, when you tried to choke my finger to death using your little hand, I knew we would make an elite team. Okay, at the time I probably thought more about dad, you and football, but – well, you know what I mean…_

_Kinda funny, some things one never forgets, no matter how small one was. Mom's round belly and you in it. Men, you could kick and box – a fighter, already at that time. I was scared to death when I saw the lumps, until she explained to me that it was your foot, which just got me and that you had to stay inside for a little bit longer until you could come to me. The idea you might come tearing out of there- horror for the little twerp I was at the time, believe me._

_When I suddenly heard her cry out in pain in the middle of the night…_

_Men, I was scared shitless, when dad came all excited to get me out of bed and took me wrapped in a blanket to our neighbor lady, who grinned like it was Christmas and Birthdays together – her name was Rose Petterson, at least I think so, a lady who knew how to bake pies to die for – God – the apple pie with cream: okay, okay, sorry, I get of track here._

_But you should have tried that one._

_Seriously..._

_Okay, I quit it right now, although – shit – my stomach is growling..._

_Don't run away, I'll be right back; I bet Bobby tried to hide some pie. Hah, it would be laughable if I wouldn't find it. Just a secoooond –_

_I'm back and on we go..._

_Search was successful, how could it be different._

_So I stood there, only in pajamas, half the neighborhood awake and dad, who very shortly mentioned that they would go and get the new baby. He jumped in the car, still half in his slippers, his hair wildly messed up and wearing his shirt the wrong way. If mom wouldn't have come to me and pressed a kiss on my forehead, I would have died of worry – how could a runt of only four years understand anything like this, when everyone goes nuts with joy and anticipation, at the same time as someone you love is tormented. But when she took my shaking fingers, laid them on her stomach and I felt you, I knew everything would be okay again, because soon I wouldn't be alone anymore._

_Then in the afternoon I got to see you. I remember exactly how my eyes almost fell out, when we marched through the hospital – Dean Winchester with a bouquet of radiant yellow sunflowers in his arms, which were bigger than he was. Flowers – can you believe that? I almost ran into the door with them, because I couldn't see anything._

_But dad was there; he helped me and lifted the little gnome I was up to the both of you._

_Until that moment, I never saw him cry…_

_Mom was beautiful; she sat just like an angel, rocking the little bundle in her arms. You were asleep, and so little, had completely knobby skin, but weirdly your hands were smooth. I didn't trust to touch you, until dad took me on his lap and for the first time I got to hold you in my arms. _

_An unbelievable feeling, nothing matches it, absolutely nothing._

_My heart almost jumped out of my chest when you opened your eyes – so tiny – and tried to see something._

_Do you know how proud I was?_

_I still am – proud to be your brother. And no matter what happens, I don't regret anything. I only wanted, just so you know it, Sammy._

_Maybe at some point you too, will be a dad, who shows his boy the world. Please try it, your way to leave everything behind might have not been the worst after all and I would like it, if you would do it again. Leave the whole business behind you and start new, have fun, a sack full of kids and give the twerps a kiss from me, tell them about there crazy uncle and teach them the same silliness I thought you. Maybe one of them will like my tapes and will rob you of the last of your sanity with them. A beautiful last wish or – but this way I know you won't forget me. _

_The day of your birth was the begin of my life – One with many stumbling blocks, but also one that presented me with a special person, who it was fun for me to raise, even if you think the opposite – oh man, I can see you in front of me, furrowed brow and head shaking – but it's the truth, the oldest one is always right, remember._

_Oh and something else… It was especially fun that the first word that you ever spoke – besides my name – was a forbidden curse word. As a big brother this was my special task and duty, for which surely deserved a medal._

_- Dean -_


	8. Door 8

Hi to all readers of this story - sorry for all Sammoholics, today we attend Dean again, when he is writing his thoughts and memories down in this little book … as an exception I borrowed him for this little door to Mia ;)

Enjoy, like I did …

*hugs to all of you* and thanks for reading, if you want, leave us a comment, we are really curious what you think of all this :) :)

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**"Door Eight"**

_One would believe that I would sit down on Christmas and compile on of those weird remembrance pieces – just you won't forget that I existed._

_You are just taking a shower and for once you went first, so that there will be enough hot water to let me finish this. I know you – you will use it to the last drop, just to get back at me. You don't think much of my death wishes, you just told me so. But that doesn't matter, it's better to let it come to a normal end then if you would hold back your demands just to make it right for me._

_Sure, once in a while it is nice, but all the time? We wouldn't be happy with it._

_The chocolate bar you gave me is sitting beside me on the couch and slowly my stomach starts to growl. At least I can save the oil for my baby for a while. The first Christmas gift in a long time. _

_A small one that comes from the heart – it is much more important than all the money in the word. Bela can roll three times naked on her silk sheets. Even she can't buy herself a family with it._

_But this gesture reminds me of our first Christmas together. It was just as overshadowed by death as this one…dim, sad…we didn't have a Christmas tree and dad was completely beside himself._

_We didn't talk much during that time, actually…to be exact, I didn't speak at all. I didn't feel like it. Dad had only the hunt on his mind and I didn't understand what he wanted and why he tried so frantically to turn his back on every city. At that time it had been almost half a year since I saw our burned down house - live. It was in my dreams every night. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't cry - it was crazy._

_I wanted to scream and romp and put all the blame on dad, but then I started to realize that I couldn't do it. If I would go nuts, I wasn't sure if he wouldn't drink even more alcohol. It wasn't okay that as a child of five, I had to worry about what would happen then._

_So I looked for a different way. When dad came home at night and you were in bed, I would sit down and cut stars out of News Paper. They looked more like screwed up circles, but a few prongs stayed on. Here is a blue star, there a yellow…in the paper were enough illustrations of pronged heaven lights to assure keeping me busy all evening._

_I wanted a Christmas with my family again. It was clear to me that I would have to keep you together. Dad drifted to far away from us and you were too little to bring him back. I had to hold him for you._

_I put the stars underneath my pillow before I went to bed and waited for the next evening, the next few hours by myself. Three days before Christmas I was done cutting out everything there was – even a Santa Clause._

_Well... drawing something by myself wasn't my thing, so I always had to wait until I found the right picture somewhere. _

_Two days before Christmas I made a mobile out of stars and tooth picks that were sitting in a small bowl in our motel room. Dad's wire helped with it, but even more to sting my fingers._

_One day before Christmas…on Christmas Eve I couldn't sleep. I moved around in the room, woke you up countless times, until dad made me go to bed and sat with me. It had been a long time since he'd done that last and a stone rolled off my heart. I wasn't gone as far as I had feared._

_I was the first to be up in the morning. Somehow I managed to mount the mobile on the travel bed, in which we carried you around and your happy cooing was reward enough. You still were tiny and had no idea why we constantly moved around. I only wanted that you had something lasting that gave you the feeling of home. A little security._

"_Merry Christmas, dad" – I didn't use my voice for so long, it sounded strange in my ears. Apparently it did to dad and you too. Your babbling broke off and dad shot up, like I had put a weapon against his head. This time it was him, who didn't spoke a single word and who simply pulled me to him._

_A corny memory, isn't it?_

_But you should know it. The mobile stayed at Missouri. I don't believe you can remember it – but I can and that's the point. Christmas belonged to the family. I know it wasn't often that we sat around a tree together – sometimes we had only the roof of the Impala over our head… but most times we were together._

_And if I ever got a little quieter on Christmas, it was due to this memory._

_Enough rambling, I can hear the shower is no longer on and surely you will appear in here soon. The game is over already, but we still have a long evening ahead of us. Maybe we will go off one more time and pick up a beer or some dinner, if we find a store that's open._

_And then we sit underneath your improvised Christmas tree with the scent trees, drink egg nog and enjoy the evening._

_The last one of its kind._

_Keep it in your memory and in case you will be alone next year – go to Bobby, or Ellen and Jo. Don't stay by yourself – because you won't be alone._

_- Dean – _


	9. Door 9

Just a little one ... *hugs* thank's again for reading and the first Story Alerts :D

Btw - Greetings too, to Erika and all the others from _JIB in Rome_ ... Welcome to the Calendar 2009 *smirks*

See ya soon ;9

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**"Door Nine"**

If one would count snow flakes instead of sheep, one would more likely go crazy then become tired. An inside Dean came to half an hour ago already, which didn't help him any though. He just couldn't get a way from the gently dance of the flakes in the darkness of the night. Tiredness wasn't his problem, he was far beyond it…

Contentedly Dean dug himself just a little bit deeper into the warming embrace of his comforter. He had been able to dispel the cold of winter from his bones, yet the frozen feeling deep inside stayed. What really kept him from sleeping weren't nightmares or the fear of demons, the pack of drooling killers that chased him- no, it was the small picture, the two laughing faces, which he held in his hands earlier.

He wished he had it with him now instead of leaving it in the car – the book, with the twin of it, was lying forgotten somewhere at Bobby's. Most times just a short glance upon it would drive away the oppressive loneliness that sat on his shoulders, now more then ever.

His gaze wandered over the bed by the window almost by accident. The covers were torn apart, almost as if Sam slept on instead beneath them. The pile of crumpled, piled together in a puddle, soaking wet clothes perched like an accusing watch dog in front of it. Totally awesome, besides everything else he now got the guilty conscience, which he until now had successfully banned into the furthest corner.

Optimal solution, Winchester.

With a sigh he rolled around, looking for his favorite position in the small indentation in the mattress, which proved to fit him like it was made for him. Grumbling he pushed himself a little further into the nest made of blankets, until he gave up with muttering, swung his legs out of bed and grudgingly put his feet onto the cold planks. Pulling the bedding with him, wound around his shoulders for warmth and hanging almost down into his shoes, he stumbled over to the window.

It was almost a reflex that made him listen, if he woke the other one, until his error hit him like a sledgehammer over the back of his head. One couldn't wake anyone, who avoided one and understandably preferred the company of the fire place one level below.

Dean pulled in a deep breath, put his forehead against the cold glass and let his gaze move over the untouched white of the landscape. His breath condensed on the window as he did and formed small frosty shapes out of watery crystal.

They stood exactly in this spot, when Sam was still a little tike, excited because of the first snow, crowded together and observing the spectacle as one. The eyes of the youngest beamed with curiosity to find out if this ice also tasted like strawberry ice cream, it lasted for exactly two seconds, until the little tongue became stuck to the window in his attempt to taste it.

The disillusionment that the wet window tasted exactly like such, obviously had to be pushed away with hot chocolate, followed by a snowball fight outside, during with Sam, wearing a snowsuit, looked like an exploding blue mop.

Men, Bobby had to swallow a lot at that time, the hits hailed through the air and the Unit Winchester won by a land slide after a hurried cry for help, which came in the shape of its general – one could hear the laughter for miles.

Looking back, being here, when John took a time out and became only the father – a role, which he didn't allow himself very often; those were the greatest times by far.

What would Dean give to have his book now, to hold on to those small pieces of the past, so they wouldn't get lost, even if only to simply know that on those pages, they still existed.


	10. Door 10

Thx for reading and all the new story alerts and a *special hug* to _drkstormynite ;D ..._ and here it is, the next chapter

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**"Door Ten"**

Sam his pointer finger rest between to pages as a book mark, while he paged back to the picture. His head was hot and felt heavy.

He could see only the outlines, but besides the missing light, there was another reason for this time – the tears that were standing in his eyes and attempting to break the levee.

Family.

Dean had to have written this before the last Christmas. Before his death. Before his time in hell. When the world was still at least partially intact and he – Sam – could simply tell him that he wished his brother back.

The wish never left. Sam had felt just how much Dean had to fight with himself after his return and he couldn't get close to him anymore. Out of frustration over this distance he chose the easier way and told himself it was time to let go, make his own way instead of giving in to the regression, which a returned big brother called for.

Now he realized that one could talk himself into something and only to sit here in the end and regret it.

He regretted the wasted time. All the distrust and the arguing, his wrong decisions and the time they spent separated. It wasn't strength to renounce ones family and relentlessly push ahead.

It would have been strength to stand with Dean and accept that some things never change, simply because they are anchored safely. They should have worked on their problems instead of running away from them.

There was no "other family" anymore, no "not alone". Bobby and Dean were the only two people, who he had left after the tragedy. After a senseless death – he was just about to lose them too.

"You okay, boy?" He heard a growling voice from the door and nodded hastily without looking up. The wheels squeaked as they began to roll and Sam turned away as they showed up in his peripheral vision

He put his arm on the back of the couch, supporting his arm with his elbow and closing his burning eyes. "…am okay" he mumbled indistinctly.

Bobby took it without a comment, rolling a little bit closer and stretching his hand out until he reached Sam's shoulder, "You should sleep."

"No…I…"His voice broke and his stomach turned over.

"Self loathing doesn't make it better, Sam. Try to sleep and talk to him tomorrow."

"And if he doesn't want to see me? We…threw things at each other…"

"Because you are hurting. I wouldn't be amazed, if everything would be alright after…" Bobby interrupted himself and his hand pressed almost imperceptible against Sam's arm. "Don't give up. This here"– Bobby slightly tapped on the book – "is the best proof that it isn't to late for you pig heads

Sam nodded, bit his lips and dug his glowing cheeks just a little bit deeper into the folds of his sweater. He told himself it was only the fever that let him overreact, but deceiving himself was difficult… especially, if one just minutes ago thought about the effects this would have.

The wheels moved away on the floor, this time noiselessly and a door was pressed into its lock.

Alone with his thoughts, Sam trembled as he curled up on the couch, the book in his arms like a treasure. Tears collected in the small corner beside the root of the nose, conquered the hill and dripped onto the pillow.

He was so sick of playing the strong, independent Winchester, who didn't need anyone.


	11. Door 11

So sorry, I am a little late .O-O.

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**"Door Eleven"**

Feet crept silently over the cold floor, only muffled by thick socks. The house lay quiet, sleeping with its inhabitants. Except of one, who couldn't find rest.

Dean turned around the corner in the darkness, he knew exactly where the edge of the first step was, listened just a moment – everything was silent – before he persisted to ghost through the house like a burglar and continued his way downstairs.

He was tired, hungry, an awfully guilty conscience and - …wanted to know, if Sam was alright. Pneumonia for Christmas wasn't a good gift.

Seeing the small strip of flickering light shine from underneath the door, he watched with tension for a sign from insight, a reason to turn around and take his but back upstairs in a hurry.

_Spineless_ – his conscience kicked in. And he, Dean Winchester never allowed himself to be spineless lightheartedly, never ever. Especially because it didn't even come close to the truth, he just didn't want to wake Sam in case he was sleeping.

_Coward_ – good grief, if someone could just turn this off.

Eyes rolling he was changing his route, from refrigerator to the door that separated living room and kitchen, changing his mind at the last moment, he made a sharp turn, grabbing a few crumbly cookies from the counter and two pieces of dry bread from the belonging bag and stuffed them in the pocket of his sweat suit. After all, one had to always be prepared.

Faster then he liked, he stood in front of the wooden partition again, the knob in his tense hand and yet he still didn't move an inch.

_Chicken – _now it really was enough with this shit!

Giving himself a push, he mumbled quietly: "Do something Winchester; it's only a stupid door." With this he opened it, slowly, so that the guides holding the wood wouldn't make even a slight noise. Carefully he stretched his head through first, pushing his upper body after and searching the room with his eyes.

No Sam – until he discovered the food that was hanging over the backrest of the couch and upon closer inspection he now could also recognize the dark mop of hair in the dim light of the fire place, which half burrowed in a pillow, was barely noticeable on the other side.

He crept forward in the direction of the sofa without the slightest noise, hesitated momentarily and finally looked over the back rest.

The air fled from his lungs in a surprised pant. Shock and disbelief swept over his inside, leaving Dean swaying and grabbing at the piece of furniture in front of him, to not loose traction in the real sense of the word.

Dammit, he should have eaten something.

And this time his cocky conscience could just keep quiet, he knew himself that it was just an excuse.

He expected a lot, but not this, Sam lying half curled up, as much as his size allowed it, one arm perched underneath his head and the other lying over his chest, the little leather book tightly pressed against himself – Dean's Book – his thoughts and memories. The Sam of today should never have read this, he wouldn't understand it anymore.

Or would he?

Frowning, the older one scrutinized the face of the sleeper. All of Sam formally cried out for someone – or something – radiating loneliness. The sleep showed the hidden, obviously otherwise so well hidden, locked up behind walls made of the hardest granite. Dean asked himself, if it was the same with him, if he showed Sam in his sleep, what was impossible to say.

He looked so young...

Tear tracks, still moist, glittered on fever reddened cheeks – Dean's gaze went further – the hand, which held the little book, or rather, which he clutched, like he never wanted to let go. Samuel Winchester missed out on a lot that was normal for others, the feeling of secureness, given by loving parents, a home, safety or family. With Dean it was different, for him those memories were little life lines that held him together and for the first time he hated keeping them almost selfishly for himself. Would it have changed anything? Was big brother guilty of the change in the younger one, the catastrophe that was happening?

How much did he read?

Very slowly he surrounded the piece of furniture, including its sleeping covering and silently sat down on the floor in front of it, absentmindedly staring into the fire, the even breathing of the other on his back.

And again past and present wove together into an indivisible mesh. Close to Sam he felt good, secure, needed, at least it used to be this way - in another time, yet at the same place.


	12. Door 12

Hey guys it's been a while … We hope you had a nice Christmas time. So sorry for the delay. It was a little chaotic the last weeks and it seems someone don't want us to finish the story. Mia was ill and I myself had a little trip to the hospital and a few days or better a few more days, I'd like to forget forever. But Christmas time is over, the things are a little better now and we want to tell you all, that we will finish this calendar, even it's eastern then *gg* ;)

***hugs*** to everyone who is still reading - maybe you'd like to tell us what you think about all this ;D

See ya soon …

_Mia and Leila_

_

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_

**"Door Twelve"**

In the beginning sleep had been anything but peaceful. Sam rolled around restlessly, pushing his head deeper into the pillow, repeatedly looking for a different spot, unconsciously hunting for coolness at one moment – while wanting only warmth at the next.

But then the presence in the room changed. The crackling emptiness was filled with something that worked like a sedative for Sam and finally he relaxed enough to drift deeper into sleep. It was so normal; he didn't even understand what it was.

Only when morning dawned slowly, his mind returned and he blinked fiercely in order to open his eyes – and starred directly onto the back of a dark blonde head that was only about a yard away from him.

Startled Sam jerked and his stomach rebelled, like he was driving over small ripples in a road - or like he was riding a roller coaster.

His big brother was sitting on the floor, his knee bent and his arm perched on it, in his fingers a picture, which he was looking at, deeply in thought. He didn't appear as restless as hours ago and also seemed no longer angry.

Sam lifted his head a bit and spied over Dean's shoulder at the picture. He didn't know it and he didn't recognize the situation and background either.

He looked at Dean's face with confusion, but noting the absentmindedness, he remained quiet, while letting himself sink back. This was more than strange. It hadn't been that long since they'd screamed at each other and now Dean sat here.

The same Dean, who threw him out on the street.

Not that Sam was still upset; he only needed to look at absurdity of the situation.

Sadly it was also partly so he could understand what was going on.

A quiet laugh, more like a short rumble in Dean's throat, let him turn his head. His own voice was flat, almost noiseless, "What is it about this picture?"

Maybe Dean didn't hear him.

Maybe he didn't want to answer.

Slightly less optimistic Sam turned to his side and in doing so pushed the leather book under his pillow. Dean had long seen it, but until he was done reading it, he wouldn't give it back.

_**~sss~**_

Dean felt the slow awakening behind him, small movements and hesitant emerging from a refreshing sleep. It was enough, if one of them spent the night in sleepless pondering and broke the old record in staying awake by several lengths.

The older one could distinguish the exact moment, when his presence was noted, any light-heartedness or familiarity behind him almost completely disappeared. Even without seeing it, Dean knew that it was replaced by mistrust and wariness and once again he wasn't sure, what reaction would follow – flight, argument or something worse?

But it remained quiet and something new joined the silent round – curiosity.

Then a whispered question came, only slightly above the slowly dying crackle of the flames.

Dean's gaze moved over the photograph in his hand, a picture out of the little book, which had been clamped loosely in between the pages – he never got to securing it – and thought back...

Sam had the book and with it a piece of his past - ... he would let him read it, this much he owed his brother, but was there room for more?

Dean stood up slowly; his gaze fixed firmly on the flames in front of him and remained silent, as a clearly shaken Sam watched, him getting ready to leave…


	13. Door 13

Vonnie was hardworking, so I am able to give you three chapters today *hugs* to her for that.

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**"Door Thirteen"**

Orange, red and here and there a little blue – colors of fire. Warming in one moment, death bringing the next.

Dean looked down on the timid gleaming in the old fireplace in front of him. Soot colored the masonry and everything around the fire place black – black, the color of death.

He lower his head a little bit more, lifted his hand and stared upon the tiny piece of past, captured on yellowed paper. This moment would stay forever, only the people on it wouldn't…

Sighing he risk a short glance over his shoulder, but didn't look directly into Sam's eyes while doing so, even without it he knew that hope and a silent pledge were reflected in it.

Was there still hope? What a word for something no one really believed in. On the other hand – no one believed in angels either.

Except their mom…also a victim of fire.

And Sam was so damned like her.

So Dean's little morning inventory showed nothing different then the night before – The younger one didn't look good, it wasn't just the strength draining last few weeks that left deep tracks behind. Loss and sorrow had done it just as well, mixed with the worry for the other. Dean knew that Sam couldn't deal with it that he closed himself off more and more wouldn't talk about the explosions and its aftereffects. The little bit, which had been said, had been mostly screamed and had made sure the wound stayed open, the scab on it couldn't be a healing band aid.

In the past Sam would have found a way – only the past was long gone, the Winchesters were different then.

But how did they say so nicely – many ways lead to Rome.

Pulling air in deeply, he turned back, pushed the picture into his pocket and left, his younger brother's hazel eyes in his back, who looked as if he was going to fall apart into a thousand tiny pieces at any moment.

It was still quiet when he came back a few minutes later, except of an almost inaudible noise, which made Dean startle. He pushed the door closed just a bit noisier than necessary in order to give the younger the opportunity to collect, pretending he didn't realize how Sam frantically wiped his eyes, while he surrounded the sofa with crashing steps.

His arms loaded up with firewood for the fire place, he began to refill the reserves. He made a second and third trip, before he finally nodded in satisfaction, fed the embers their breakfast and returned to sit on the floor, leaning against the sofa and digging around in his jacket pockets.

His hands now loaded with cookies and a crumbly slice of bread in each, he divided his emergency ration and handed it over his shoulder. "You got to eat something." Calm, bit demanding or governing.

And trembling fingers grabbed it.

Dean couldn't help but notice that despite the shivering an incredible heat radiated from the other. _Fever. _Quiet rattling and movement behind him – Sam had sat up a little, yet had never left his blanket nest.

They took in their meager meal leisurely, saying no word, letting their thoughts flow freely, lost in the sight of the woken to new life flames.

"I got it from Ellen…" with a deep intake for he continued, "The picture." Slowly he took it out once again, his finger lovingly gliding along the edge.

Expectant silence behind him.

"Almost funny that I forgot about this – but Ellen…" a weak smirk on his lips he went on, "She knew about my little project - …" A nod of his head in direction of the pillow and the small treasure under it made clear, what he meant.

„This woman, there is nothing one can - ... one could – hide from her."

Sadness put its shadow over the laughing faces on the photograph and one question hung that didn't have to be spoken, hung in the air.

"After dad's death … it wasn't the first time we were there. Back then, when mom died, we must have stayed a while with Ellen, but that's a time that I can't and won't remember." A small pause followed, during which the older seemed to put his thoughts in order. "We were in so many places, with so many strangers. At some point I couldn't even tell them apart anymore. Mostly I was satisfied, if I knew what the name of the school was, in which we got stuck for another two weeks."

Again silence.

"I always remembered a cheeky little girl, who sat with us in a sand box. Heaven, I had to be eight or so, but I didn't remember the name or place anymore, until Ellen helped me out a little bit." A grin flashed over his expression. "This here is Jo …" A soft nudge at the small, blonde and over both cheeks grinning girl, "… you sat just a little away from her and a bit later you caught a shovel of dirt in your face, because you crossed her during a building project." A deep laugh from Dean underlined the fun on the picture. "The other handsome guy is me, as one should be able to tell without any problems, right after she fired a shovel of dirt into my face – heated temperament was obviously never one of her problems."

The laugh on the elder's face stayed and yet did he turn a little bit, hiding the sorrow that collected moistly in the corners of his eyes. His fingers remained clamped around the tiny piece of paper, the thumbs laid softly onto the shiny surface, almost like a tender touch and the cheek of the child, the woman, who years later died an anguished death, to save – all – him.

"I miss her." Almost soundless and yet a scream of what was impossible to put into more words and still find a way across his lips.


	14. Door 14

**"Door Fourteen"  
**

Sam allowed himself to sink just a bit more back, wordlessly staring up at the ceiling and trying to free his heart from the presence of the jackhammer that worked on it. For several seconds it was beyond his capabilities to clear his mind or talk his voice into doing what he wanted it to.

Dean did a lot during those last few days, from not sleeping to letting things run over him to demolishing a complete motel furnishing and Sam just stood by helpless and for some crazy reason wishing, he was the goal of this wrath. At least this would have given him the opportunity to scream out his own grief.

This here was better in one way, but worse in the other. Sam didn't know his brother this way and it was difficult for him to react in the right way now, especially because he too could hardly deal with the loss. On the other hand, it was one of the few moments during which Dean let anyone get close to him.

Sitting up quietly, pushing back the dizziness, he pushed his legs past Dean on the floor and slid after them until he sat on the floor beside the older man. The distance between them stayed; no body contact. Usually Sam would have pushed him with his shoulder or his knee, but he now he had to confess to himself that he was scared to push Dean away.

"I know you miss them, I do too." He finally quietly admitted, making a conscious effort of staring at the upwards licking flames, while doing so, as to not destroy the extremely thin band, which connected them right now.

The picture was handed to him and when he held it in his fingers; he could see more closely that the little thing on it was really Jo. The eyes never lost that challenging glimmer.

"I really can't remember this."

"You were too little."

"That too, but I meant that I can't remember anything from those years. Not even later. It's like it never happened and every day, we look only forwards, do I forget more."

Sam let his head sink down to his chest, letting the picture held between thumb and pointer finger hang off his knee and sighed quietly. "Even Jess disappears more and more-…and dad. Sometimes I think about situations and how they happened…and ten times I did, every little fact was still there and then suddenly the details are missing. Words, voices, with each time it is more and I'm scared I will forget everything. I don't want to forget Ellen and Jo."

Somewhere hope stayed that they wouldn't. With the unspoken _'Don't let us hush them up'_, returned a little bit of the Sam Winchester that he used to be. A person, who took his fellow human as important and who knew how to treasure every moment.

Even sitting here was something, which he hopefully would remember for a long time, because in some way it was a turning point and exactly at this spot Sam broke his musing off. If he would allow himself to become sentimental now, all his self-control would be gone. First they had to come down from the melting point and then there would still be time to explain, to read and to talk.

"Hey, what you think, should we check what's on TV?" He asked frowning and praying inside he wouldn't be brushed off.

The walk on the tightrope would continue; they would have to make sure not to fall back into the old patterns. While the TV was on, they had another change to get used to one another once again.

With some awkwardness Sam fought his way back onto his feet and finally stood swaying on them. If someone just would stop the world from moving.


	15. Door 15

I hope we will update soon ... see ya _Mia and Leila _

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**"Door Fifteen"**

Dean quietly watched the silhouette beside him out of the corner of his eyes. Somehow he wasn't sure how he was supposed to act – after all this was the first real moment happening between them in a long time. Here was a piece of the Sam, whom he had missed so painfully, but on the other side the new Sam pushed the softy of the past into the farthest back corner and that couldn't be missed, even if during twilight. Movements that in the past appeared somewhat lanky and shy to the close observer, had lost that undertone – no one would suspect any weakness behind this man, exactly the opposite.

Sam's question almost got lost in the chaos of Dean's memories and current impressions – heaven; he finally had to get some sleep so that not everything sounded like Chinese.

He followed the clearly shaky attempt of the younger man to get to his feet with a questioning look, as he stumbled like a young deer over his long walking instruments and only with much effort regained his balance, before stumbling into direction of the kitchen, from which a busy rumbling was audible.

"Sam?"

"Hmmh…" The so addressed stopped, his back to the couch and if Dean was already at analyzing body language, Sam's tense shoulder and the slightly lowered head told him clearly that he expected something negative to come.

But maybe it was time to change some things, before it was too late for it, as the picture in his hand reminded him so painfully.

"Check, if the old man has some chips hidden somewhere and a soda wouldn't be bad either, even though I suspect I will need something stronger to get through the morning program."

Silence. A casual smirk appeared on Dean's face, as he saw the surprise of the other. The smirk broadened, when Dean understood that he still could do it – read Sam like a book. Okay, one in which a few pages were missing or charred, but still better than nothing.

Completely distracted by his excursion into the world of the Ethologists he didn't see Bobby's head sticking through a small slit in the door. "I heard that you idjit – and in my house there won't be tortured potato slices for breakfast. You - …" His finger pointed at Dean, „hurry up and move your butt over hear and help me. And you…" – a twist toward Sam – "…move your undercarriage back to the couch, you look worse than a zombie." Strangling any protest before it could start, he added, "No arguments, or I will beat you over the head with the broom, don't think that I don't know ways and means to keep up with old habits."

And so roles were changed, Sam was moved back onto the couch and Dean was ordered off to kitchen duty, which he found much more pleasant than thought with having the prospect of a great breakfast.

_**~sss~**_

An hour later, as Bobby sat at his desk and studied his book without getting any results, he caught himself repeatedly watching the brothers on their excursion into the early morning entertainment of the local TV station, even though each was in a different corner of the couch, but at least in the same room and on the same piece of furniture.

It also didn't stay hidden from him that Dean upon leaving had shortly squeezed Sam's shoulder – for a stubborn Winchester of this caliber quite a milestone.

Maybe things would never be as they used to be – he was even certain of it – but it would get better, it had to, or he wouldn't have a choice but lay two grown men over his knee and beat some sense into them.

Pushing those absurd thoughts more than thankfully to the side, he watched how Dean's eyes slowly closed and he gave in to the urgently needed sleep without further resistance. And somehow Bobby had the feeling the nightmares would stay away this time.

Only a little bit later the youngest carefully peeled himself out of one of his blankets and gently laid it over the other, before moving back into his own area and with an almost invisible smile on his face, also gave into his exhaustion and closed his eyes.


	16. Door 16

After a long waiting time we finally continue...we hope, even though Christmas is over for a bit, you will have fun anyway.

Special Greetings also from Mia, who badly under the weather and armed with tissues is waving to you from underneath her mount of blankets.

Your scribblers _Mia and Lia_

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_PS: There is something new in the __**'Mitternachtskritzeleien'**__, which from now on hidden behind the link in the main profile._

_Mitternachtskritzeleien __– Midnight Doodlings_

_(I will hand the rest of the drawings in soon and will add them to this also)_

_LG Lia ;)_

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**"Door**** 16"**

Bobby's trash can in the kitchen was slowly but surely overflowing with tissues and if Sam was honest with himself, he had to confess he was at least in a part responsible that Bobby as well as Dean had to pile up the rest of the garbage some place else and with it destroyed the attempt to an organized kitchen.

Out of necessity he packed everything he could find that needed throwing away into sacks and piled them up beside the garbage can outside, which by now also was completely overfilled. Was there ever anyone, who came and picked up that stuff?

He didn't see anything of Bobby since this morning and Dean joined the invisibility mode. During the last few days Sam didn't care much about what was going on around him and instead had cured the worst of his illness on the couch. At least the world quit spinning, he could live with the headache, after all over the years he did nothing but. As far as the dripping nose went, he was working on it, but slowly he started to be a scary competition to Rudolph.

Since he got back on his feet and started to feel human again, boredom overcame him. This he needed to urgently address. Maybe he could find something meaningful to do – if he found Dean.

The property might have been large, but the places, where his brother tended to reside were few. He wasn't in the house and there was no trace of him in the yard. At least none that comprise him in person. Instead there was one, which he clearly left behind.

Carefully Sam led his steps over the snow, which was packed so tightly, it was fit to serve as a slide and trudged toward the shed.

The door was completely closed and Sam pushed it open, not caring about making noise.

If Dean would have worn a shirt instead of two thick sweaters one over the other, Sam would have recognized the resemblance to one of there last cases very clearly, but this way he just thoughtfully tilted his head, "Hey."

"Hey" it came muffled from under the car, but only when Sam nudged against Dean's shin with his knuckles, did he roll out, his hands pitch black, "What's going on?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, suddenly unsure. They talked to each other, could be in the same room, but how was here, in completely in the wild, so to speak? They were like two young tigers, which circled one another and practiced their attacks – and then scattered apart in surprise, when coming to close to each other, completely confused by their courage.

Would the thin band, which they were tying hold? Sam decided, there was only one way to find out, "Do you need help?"

Judging Dean's gaze went from his younger brother to the car, on which he was working. He hesitated very slightly, perhaps weighing, which would cause bigger damage and then nodded, "Okay."

For the first moment satisfied with the concession, Sam pulled his hands out of his pockets and crouched down, "What do you need?"

_**~sss~**_

Mostly they worked silently around, interrupted by short sentences, instructions, questions and the clinking of metal on which they worked. No word fell in the direction of what happened or what they would do, when they needed to go back on the road.

Both tested it the Winchester way, which had been given to them on their way – just go on, don't think about it.

That was simpler said than done, after all, Sam tended to question everything and rather be three times safe, then one times wrong. The time with his brother taught him to ask the right questions at the right time, sometimes to drill and on other days to simply overlook things – now this habit was slightly lagging. It wasn't gone, just a little rusty.

"Is Bobby trying to sell the vehicle? "He finally broke the silence.

"No, I don't think so."

"Why?"

"It was Ellen's." Only now Sam recognized the dented vehicle again and it hit him like a blow with iron certainty, while Dean continued, "There was an accident on the way here. Nothing that couldn't be fixed."

Sam heard the quiet undertone out of it, which warned him from saying anything to it.

A car could be reconstructed – he knew that. The Impala had been such a case, after they were hit by the truck. Sam didn't just fight one argument with Bobby over, if it was worth to even save the car, but for Sam the Impala had always been an allegory for Dean. It this wreck could be saved then his brother would survive.

Here it was not about hope, it was about processing. If they fixed the vehicle, it would be easier to let go. It would still stand there as a memento and remind them of their failure, it would continue to hurt, but in a twisted sort of way, it would be better, then if the now worthless metal would lay with the other victims of its kind.

Bobby had burned the picture of Jo and Ellen. He didn't need to say that he couldn't look at their faces, they knew it. There hadn't been a single picture of Dean after his trip to hell and the trip to hell either – the only one had been in Sam's bag and that had been wisely stored out of Bobby's reach.

But even the old hunter needed his memories. The one, standing in front of him had just as much worth to Bobby as any picture. Maybe even more, because there was only one moment caught on a picture. But there were so many more instants inside this car, which had something to tell.

It was his way to grief and to remember.

Unconsciously Sam registered that a part of this habit was in Dean also. In opposite to himself, he was processing it right now.


	17. Door 17

And another one right afterwards...

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**"Door 17"**

Quiet clatter, an occasional curse – otherwise silence. Dean startled briefly, looking for the reason of his strange restlessness, before he noticed what he was missing.

He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had completely forgotten about the presence of the other. However one twisted and turned it, it wasn't really the best behavior. Especially, when one considered, how things stood between them at the moment. They didn't need another step back; they decidedly had already too many of them lately.

The old cleaning cloth already between the fingers that enjoyed a black oil bath, he slowly pushed himself out from underneath the vehicle.

"Sam?"

No answer – awesome, screwed up Winchester – it had been obvious that the other had been able to stand it anymore to be all alone in the house; it had been written onto his forehead like a neon sign. And like other times, Dean had pushed it to the side, except for the guilty conscious, which intercepted him so many times during the past few weeks, once again was reproaching him.

He could have at least tried to talk – The weather…_or Jo_…precipitation rates…_Ellen_…degrees below cero…_or Lucifer, the death_ – shit.

Straining to pull himself up, he stretched his back, every muscle in it protesting. There were better times of years to lie on ones backside on a thin wooden board, only inches above the icy concrete floor.

Only that this here didn't tolerated any delay, at least this much he owed him.

And again a little voice in the back of his head announced its presence, mixing pictures of fire and damnation in it…for an instant, a tiny moment he had been able to suppress it, although he could count this on one hand.

When he turned, still wiping his frosty fingers on the cloth, he paused.

So much to the theme of being alone – Sam was sitting on the backseat of the jacked up car, leaning against the closed side door; he had wrapped himself into the old fringe blanket and obviously had fallen asleep.

As Dean stepped a little bit closer, he discovered the small book, which peeped out halfway hidden from underneath the plaid fabric.

So he had read again.

The younger man hadn't been up to it during the last few days because of his headaches, but also hadn't let it out of his hands – he could have given Rumsfeld some serious competition. Dean couldn't hold back a quiet laugh, even if the crooked grin on his dirt smeared face right away crashed again – another senseless victim.

Not ready to disturb the rest, which Sam so obviously needed, but also not ready to leave him behind in the only sparingly heated workshop, he sat down on an old wooden box, pulled the heater closer with his foot and relaxed his tired bones.

Leaning his head against the wall behind him, he observed the sleeping figure…

_**~sss~**_

„_There was an accident. "_

"_What does that mean, an accident? They have been on the road for only 24 damned hours -…"_

"_Listen young man -…_

"_No, YOU listen, how can something like this happen, when you are here to watch out. I knew this was a stupid idea…I'll come to get him!"_

_Not waiting for an answer the conversation was over, he himself already half into his shoes and out of the door._

_His dad would explode like a hand grenade. Nonsense that wouldn't even begin to describe the outbreak, which was going to follow. He had forbidden it and shit, oh man, they were sitting up to their necks in shit, which he was sure to break on his little brother, if this hadn't happened already._

‚_Sammy -…' _

_Two hours later he had a badly scraped up young man in the back seat, who wrapped into an old army blanket spoke no word and stared out of the window._

_How could one only be so damn stubborn?_

_Screaming didn't help, it was anyway just a disguise for the worry, which resonated in it and Sam knew it – may the devil get him._

_After his initial rage, which equaled a tornado, Dean had given the teacher the scare of her life, when he started to laugh tears, after she told him with much unease about the little episode, which had to have led to the accident._

_Even now, when he remembered the expression on her face, he had to start grinning. When he had stopped with squealing tires in the parking lot, she had been halfway scared to death by the expression on his face and in the end had to think, he was completely insane, after he had loaded his limping freight up._

_Now, almost two hours later, the corners of his mouth once again gave in to the temptation, to beeline upwards without delay. As his gaze now met that of his younger brother in the rearview mirror, who after a small cool down phase was now clearly more relaxed; he couldn't bite back a little taunt._

"_You do understand little brother that it -…"_

"_Yeah, yeah, say it, is ridiculous, stupid and reckless on top?"_

"_No, I simply wanted to say – incredibly funny and I will rub that in again and again for the next one hundred years." Laughing Dean had to seriously hold it together to not drift of the road, "Breaking your leg, while repelling from the girls balcony."_

_And now there was no holding back anymore, especially when he older one looked into defiant hazel eyes, which now spark spraying, gleamed at him._

"_Girls – I would have never though that I would ever say this in a situation like this, but I'm proud of you that you learned something sensible from me."_

"_Ass", was the only think coming from the back seats, before one laughing Winchester had turned into two._

_**~sss~**_

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_We hope you liked it, even if it has been a while since the last door *shame* _

_We would really enjoy a review, or two, or three or…Okay, so one would be awesome… *hugs* _


	18. Door 18

_*silently sneaks in* _This door exists for quite some time already, unfortunately I just didn't get around to posting it – please forgive me, but at the moment real life is very hectic. I really hope you'll have fun with it…

See you soon…;)

Lia :)

PS – We really would enjoy even the smallest review from you…

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**"Door 18"**

Sleeping in the back of the car was relaxing. Sam couldn't exactly remember, when he closed his eyes because the letters in front of his nose started to blur, but the old familiarity of the busyness around him did the rest.

Dean had always been underway as soon as there father was gone. To here and to there, checking salt lines, cleaning weapons. Never would he find rest, not even in sleep. As soon as Sam turned around in bed, Dean was awake, sat up straight in bed and had the knife in his hand. Once woken he wouldn't find back into the refreshing delirium, instead he would stay awake. TV programs, which never in a live time were meant for his age, worries, which he never should have had.

His older brother stared thoughtfully into the emptiness, his forehead laid in wrinkles, which sooner or later would forever remain drawn into it. The foundation for it laid way to long ago.

Sam never could do much.

Not even now.

Yet the helplessness, which he expected didn't show up.

Intensely he blinked the tiredness away, remembering the last read lines and pushed his legs onto the floor, followed by the rest of his body, which took only a little bit longer to adjust to the transition from 'bent' to 'straight'.

"Let's go in." He suggested, as in passing he pushed against Dean's upper arm so he would finally wake from his thoughts and pondering.

Sam didn't stop. He didn't want to feel the hurt within, if Dean wouldn't follow him, but instead would only stare at him without understanding. In that case it was better he ignored it and pretended as if it didn't happen.

Instead he heard only seconds later, how the quiet hum of the heater ceased and the metallic noise of the wheels in its rails, as the door was being closed.

There path was strange, separated and yet still the same. Sam waited first at the door to the house until Dean caught up, let him in and followed.

They didn't have many choices left. Dean chose the arm chair – a clear sign that he was ready to have companionship, but not for building any kind of closeness. Sam sighed softly and leaned backwards over the backrest of the couch.

"You want chips?"

"I thought we don't have anymore?" it came back accusingly.

"We don't, I do." Sam responded lightly and through the back with potato chips over his shoulder, before he reappeared with two bottles of beer.

Dean's look spoke for itself. The question marks above his head seemed to blink red. "What is this supposed to be?" was the unspoken question, which Sam acknowledged by turning the TV on.

Every time when Sam had noticed that Dean wouldn't get to sleep because of all the stuffing himself with junk, he had thrown all his fears of oversleeping, exams and hunts over board and had unpacked his own stockpiles. It was mostly him, who budgeted with his food and in the end would share everything. Dressed in boxers and t-shirt he had joint Dean on the couch and together they survived the worst night programming.

The crown top of the bottle cut uncomfortably into the sensitive flesh between Sam's thumb and pointer finger, bringing him back into reality.

If they could find a new way, then at least an old one had still to work. He didn't want to force Dean to start talking – it was enough, if he didn't push him away and hid in a whole, because then Sam's alarm bells would ring up a storm.

Right now the red flag was only raised to half mast.

Silently Sam handed the bottle a piece of furniture over, made himself comfortable and turned the TV on. "What you wanna watch?"

"Doesn't matter."

Sam let the station run, opening his own beer and took a deep draw. In the past it had been soda – and popcorn. Dean couldn't accommodate them with that, but beer and chips served the purpose just as well.

Gradually Sam sensed how the tension in Dean's shoulders disappeared. He seemed to comprehend that the younger man didn't take aim at anything.

Not directly anyway.

"It wasn't your fault." Sam kept his head stubbornly directed at the screen, when he spoke.

The cutting thick air stayed absent.

Slowly he turned towards Dean. He couldn't wrest out a smirk to give his statement some nonsensical support. Actually to an outsider nothing would have pointed to Dean having heard him.

To an outsider, Sam repeated inside. Yet he saw that Dean's eyes no longer were clinging to the TV, but were now fixated on its right upper edge. It had to ratter in his head.

He heard him.


	19. Door 19

On we go...I hope its okay as compensation for the long wait ;)

See 'ya

_*hugs* __ Lia _

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**"Door 19"**

"_It wasn't your fault."_

Silent and yet still earnest.

It meant so incredibly much to hear it, but to believe it for himself, he couldn't muster. Dean crawled deep inside himself, not wanting to show, just how close to the abyss he was walking. To the one, which he himself helped to dig out every day again.

Faces showed up in front of his inner eye, laughing, heartily and warmly – family, not bound by blood, but by something else…

So many lives, so many good-byes – if he would stop letting others get close to him, to love them, would it end then, stop hurting?

He fought for composure for almost every damn minute, to forget and therefore for not letting the burden of guilt crush him, to keep face in front of Sam, Bobby and himself.

Minutes passed, silent, lonely…the sounds from the loud speaker of the boob tube flowed by him like water in a nameless river. The bottle in his hands were half empty, the bag with the usually so yummy chips beside him forgotten.

His preference would have been to hit Sam, why did they have to chew this again and again, shake it up and tear healing wounds open again.

If Dean would be honest, he only wanted to get away, leave everything behind and not feel the accusation anew in every gaze, every gesture of the survivors of this fight. Only the problem was that the people on his way, the ones, which ran through the streets unsuspectingly, were walking corpses, condemned to death…

Deeply submerged in the mist of his ruminations drew him the flickering of the screen back into the present. Sam, the small remote loosely in one hand and occasionally nipping on the bottle in his other, snapped deliberately randomly through the channels. Any bet the Teletubbies could come on without encountering immediate rejection, which usually would commence acute channel-changing measures.

As the fast change of the senseless, two dimensional pictures in front of him came to a sudden end, Dean froze; this, what he now saw in front of him, was a mix from the way to near past. His stomach turned once around itself and then wrapped itself cleanly around his spine – bitter gall rising in his throat, cauterizing his innards, as he watched the spectacle there in the small box with eyes opened widely in fright.

Sam's hand was pressed trembling against the piece of technology in it.

When a tearing noise came from the loud speakers, the world came to a stop for one cruel moment, before it once again began to move – below became above and turned in blood red whirls.

Staggering the older man jumped up, in running almost thrusting into the wall, over old books, which fell to the floor and finally plunging into the small bathroom on the lower floor in his back the hauling of wolves, which tore there prey into pieces, followed by the greedy smacking of swallowed meat, through which only a moment ago live had pulsated.

Half aware he noticed how Sam seemingly shocked realizing, his face turning white as chalk, bringing the detailed nature documentation on the screen to an abrupt end.

But it was too late, much too late, the scenes in Dean's head fresher then ever, old mixed with new, his dying mixed with that of Jo.

The noises of the wild beasts haunted him, mixed with smells of blood and dying. Half gagging, at the same sobs massively pushed back into his throat, he hung over the small toilet, hated tears in the corners of his eyes, before everything bad made its way out.

The liquid salt on his cheeks was only a progression of the vomiting, if he would tell this to himself often enough, maybe it even would become true - …at some time

Later – maybe much later, or simply never.

Behind him he felt the presence of the other, who stood completely taken in the door frame.

"Dean." Softly, the hand stretched out and yet didn't find the courage to take the last step.

"Go…" anguished torn out.

"De…"

"Scat!" And with the last bit of pride and strength left in the man huddling on the floor, he pushed the door behind him shut with one hand, locking it with the other.

Almost unable to get air in between the attacks, he scooted, still half on his knees towards the small protecting barricade between him and the outside world, sitting down with his back to the wooden door and blocking the entrance in hope that he wouldn't redecorate the floor newly right away.

His Adam's apple hopped, pushing from above against what wanted to get out and stubbornness won out against treacherous weakness.

His knees drawn up against his chest, he folded his arms on them, laying his head in it and hiding what was trying to get to the surface.

On the other side he heard softly Sam's voice, no upset knocking or an attempt to break the door in, only a silent pleading.

'_Sammy…'_

But this way had been locked for a long time.

_**~sss~**_

"Lazy asses, damned…" growling the older man looked around, frustrated drawing his hand through his, as he had to observe with irritation, ever thinning hair, before carefully replacing the baseball cap over it

Then it had to go without them, without hair – an almost grin followed – and with out the two dodging Winchesters.

Struggling he pulled himself up the small ramp in front of his front door, loaded with the heavy burden in form of books, searching his way into the house and finding only silence, strangely oppressing and clearly not what he had expected.

The living room was empty, the TV off and none of the boys visible, although the Impala was standing in the yard. No noise from the shop, really what the…

As he quietly turned around the corner the events in front of him involuntarily stopped him.

Sam stood with his forehead leaning against the door of the bathroom, his hands flat against it, his eyes closed and softly speaking, unaware of his older friend.

Bobby didn't have to asked, what this was about, Sam's words spoke for themselves, "It wasn't your fault"

Almost whispering, "I'm sorry" A thought heavy pause, "You're not at fault…" Then more silent, "…I am."

A suppressed breath, "For everything."

"Dean, please…"

Yet the answer failed to appear, until it came from a different place in form of a muffled growling, Bobby's way of carefully intervene in the events.

The look, which he in turn received from Sam, made his heart stumble – how could someone, who had such fear to loose his humanity, have so many emotions in his eyes, the only true mirror to the soul – one almost broken, as it seemed.

"Go son, I'll take care of him."

Without pushing the younger man any further, Bobby nodded his head towards upstairs, showing him carefully, yet determinedly the way upstairs. He knew one thing, no matter what happened, Dean wouldn't hide in the john without a good reason., something that casually noted, came as a shock by itself.

Silently Bobby observed the other; he could actually hear the busy thinking going on underneath all the hair of the giant in front of him, before after a short hesitation a visibly disturbed Winchester looked for the way to the upper floor.

Already halfway up the stairs, the boy looked back, meeting the warm gaze of his friend.

A short time later the dragging steps faded, silence returning once more and leaving Bobby ready to take care of his other problem child.

Slowly he drove toward the scratched up door, listened, hoping for a sign…

"Boy?"

In the oppressing silence that followed, one could have even heard a pin dropping, until…

"It's okay…Sam left - …Dean?"

The small strip of light, which fell through underneath the door, gave the answer that remained unspoken, the shadow moving inside that, what Bobby needed to know – Dean sat in front of the door, hiding from his demons and the brother, who he needed so urgently.

Sighing, the older man shook his head, brooded, before he remembered a similar scene so many years ago and yet still present.

In the past it once helped to tear a disturbed shuddering six year old boy out of his nightly lethargy and nightmares and so he softly started to talk…


	20. Door 20

We almost made it, today we brought you three parts and right now we tinker with the end of your calendar (we sink into the ground because of the way to long waiting time ooh-uh)

Lots of fun with doors 20, 21 and 22

Your almost – Easter Bunnies

Mia and Lia :D

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**"Door 20"**

Bobby shoehorned his old bones with the wheel chair besides the door and paused. He didn't hear anything from the bathroom anymore.

At least something good came from it – there was no alcohol within Dean's reach to help get shit faced again.

One former junky in the house was more than enough; there was no need for the second of his wards to completely loose ground, as far as there still was one. Sometimes Dean seemed like a barrel to him, which took in and in and actually should have burst – if it only would have had a bottom.

When he finally spoke, he didn't really take care of his words. They were stupid little stories, sentimentally breathed on by the memories of his wife. Calming anecdotes, which might give an infant security, but surely not Dean Winchester, or would they?

The restless fidgeting of the shadow seized, indistinct movements slowed.

"…at some point she came here with a small puppy, Rumsfeld's mother. She thought it would be a good preparation for a child. Women never change. Everything what is small and sweet they absolutely have to have and as far as it doesn't belong to anyone, you soon have a whole herd of animals and other things in your home, which you never would have needed, if you wouldn't love her."

His house was full of these things. Some were cleanly stored away in boxes – the total opposite to the rest of his house after her death. Others visible, some others…dead, buried.

"Every time when you boys came here, you absolutely wanted to go outside with the dog. Rumsfeld was still a pup, but such a bundle of energy, like no one had seen before. You had Sam in tow, the dog on the leash…I wouldn't tell you, who walked whom."

It was getting quieter in the house, as if the noises noticed what time it was. The soft hum of the refrigerator penetrated through the hallway into Bobby's ears and clock in the living room ticked.

On the stairway Sam leaned his head against the wall beside him. When did he unlearn the ability to tackle things in a way that Dean wouldn't blow his top? Why couldn't he make him understand, what he had known for a long time?

Presumably it made no sense to look for the guilt with just anybody. Nevertheless couldn't he turn it off, nor could Dean. Hushing it up was the last possibility left.

Slowly he fought back onto his feet, felt, how stiff his joints were from the cold and overcame with a cracking in his knee the leftover steps up.

The guest room lay untouched, just like they left it. The usual chaos of a few groceries, which they brought with them in wise foresight and clothes – worn and unworn, everything mixed together.

Hesitant Sam stepped toward the window, pushing it open. He didn't know, what made him go their, couldn't tell with certainty, when he last had looked down into the moonlit yard. Car wrecks, on which work rested stood around.

How was Bobby going to earn his keep, now that he was robbed of his livelihood? The salvage yard war everything he had and his hunter's existence had found an abrupt end.

They almost had no money themselves – just enough, to buy food in irregular intervals and from time to time clothes. Enough for a motel in which the cockroaches would run over their blankets at night. Sufficient for a beer or coke, but at least so much, they could refill their water bottles on halfway clean faucets. In good times regularity moved in and they could win more money with poker or pool. In other moments the ten dollars weren't even enough for a wager.

Sam tore with all fingers through his hair and let the cold outside air stream in. It stroked softly over his closed eyelids, cheeks, nose, down on his throat and tickled his neck.

How was it supposed to continue? The world stood short before its end and they had to fight with things as profane as money.

"I know, I…haven't prayed for a long time. To be honest, I don't know, if you even want to hear from me God…wherever you might be –" Sam broke off and should his head, this was silly.

It was childish to belief, someone would help him. Especially God, the missing All-knowing, whose leaderless angels prepared a charade.

"…but in case you hear me – a small miracle would really not be bad."

Less energetically than planned he closed the window, locked it and turned around. His faith was lost long ago. He was Lucifer's host, his vessel. Damned to sit in the back of his own body and watch, how the once highest angel of heaven destroyed the creation of his father.

People, he loved.

Softly he closed the door behind him, went down the stairs and nodded to Bobby, who hardly moved from his spot. Surprised the older man moved to the side.

Twice Sam knocked with his knuckles against the door, laying his head to the side, until it was close to the wood.

"Dean?"

No answer was still better than anything he had heard an hour ago.

"Either you answer, or I will come in."


	21. Door 21

**"Door 21"**

Dean lost any feeling for time; he listened to the stories of his friend and caught himself how at some time or another, a grin stole onto his face, when a picture appeared before his inner eye. During other moments this lightheartedness was wiped away, crushed by subliminal grief and the hidden feelings, which were concealed in the words of the older man. Bobby would usually lock everything about his marriage away behind thick doors, in one as also another sense. Even more was Dean surprised by the spontaneous openness behind him. Small gaps in his own childhood filled up with pictures and with unspoken questions, which now were answered halfway.

Dean remembered little Rumsfeld well, especially how the cocky thing once bit him into his backside, when he didn't throw his favorite stick back into the air fast enough. Sammy almost died laughing, for which the four legged monster thanked him with a wild licking orgy all over his face. The dynamic duo. The two of them had always gotten along well and strangely the small, slobbering and biting big brothers in the butt animal had managed something, what prior to it only Dean had been able to do and once in a while, very seldom John – He magically made a carefree smile appear on the face of the youngest, together with a shine in his eyes, which rivaled any star in the heavens.

With a sigh Dean drew his hands over his face – then there were different times, somehow a different life, even if the reality was similar, well other than the apocalypse, the crippling and deaths of very close friends, up to his brother, whose eyes now hardly lit up with joy, rather became a black whole, on which end hell on earth waited.

But they weren't there yet – if they stuck together, they could stick it out, only it didn't do much, if he sat here on the cold floor, felt sorry for himself and puked into the john because of things, which couldn't be changed anymore.

With this – to put it mildly – shitty self motivation, he stood up, looked fast into the mirror, which hung above the tiny sink and shook his head over what he saw there. What was the name of the guy again – the one from his favorite zombie-video?! Michael something …

A handful of water thrown into his face, another to expel the taste from his mouth and another look into green eyes.

'Get it together!' if not for himself, then for Bobby and Sam.

As it the latter only waited for his entrance, there was a soft knock against the door, before only fractions later Sam could be heard.

"Dean?"

A deep sigh.

"Either you answer, or I will come in."

The voice outside didn't sound at all like the one, who just a short time ago had gone quiet, thanks to Bobby, this one was resolved to anything, strong and unyielding.

Grinning at himself in the mirror with drawn up eye brows, he thought, if it would be worth to see, if Sam would follow through – on the other hand, both of them already had enough doors in this house on their conscience.

"Okay Winchester, show time." With this last encouragement he turned around, overcame the last two inches to the door, grabbed the knob and opened it, just to realize, how Sam was ready to throw himself with all his power against it.

Bobby sat beside it and looked as if he got hit over the head; first he stared completely dumbfounded at Sam, than at Dean, back and forth.

The situation had a certain comic effect to it, although no one but Dean seemed to get it. Sam caught himself at the last moment, although he still halfway crashed into his little big brother, before he mustered him with a questioning gaze and searched for a reason for this grin, which less an hour ago wouldn't have even been a rudimentary thought.

„Hey bro..." A nod to Sam and finally a fast pan to Bobby, who eyeballed him, as if he suddenly had grown a horn, "Where is the axe, which usually always is kept behind the door?"

Okay, the changes, which came with these words, couldn't have been any better and Dean laughed out of his full heart, until tears ran down his face. As strange as it was, he felt better, much better and the laugh gave him the strength needed to pull himself up and forget the last hour, at least parts of it. His job was to look out for his family, to protect them and if that meant that he took the burden of their worry from their shoulders and carried it himself, then so be it.

A pat on Sam's shoulder, who unprepared actually listed a little and a Dean Winchester, who pushed past both men, who looked after him nonplused and bee-lined to the door, pulled his coat from the hook and determinedly strode out into the night.

Barely outside, Dean breathed in the fresh, clear night air, letting it stream cleanly into his lungs and making him clearer.

Laughing was definitely better than crying, even when it continued to hugely feel like it deep inside.

Awkwardly closing his coat with his fingers and at the same time searching his environment with his eyes, he fast found the object of his desire. The old axe stuck in an old wooden block, unused since the day, when Bobby couldn't just come out without difficulty anymore.

Without further hesitation he grabbed in walking by the flashlight, which always ready stood by the entrance and moved towards his objective. Just as he panting was going to pull the piece of steel out of the frozen tree trunk, the door squeaked again and a visibly irritated Sam stood in the frame, already half his arm in his coat, holding the worn woolen scarf in his teeth and searching for the lost sheep of the family.

When his eyes had found the older man, who at the moment was pulling the axe out with a jerk, Dean could even see from the distance, that Sam wasn't far from thinking he was some madman, who soon was going to kill the whole neighborhood.

"You're coming?"

Okay, so the wrinkle on the forehead of the younger man proved that Dean was right with his estimation.

Silence.

"So…?"

Still nothing, which really wasn't amazing, when one looked at the circumstance, that Dean right now stood there, an axe slightly swinging in his hand, a itty-bitty nervous breakdown in his back and a former junky before him.

"Heaven, Sam, I'm not trying to kill anyone, I just think, tomorrow is Christmas and well…" A short embarrassed pause, "we still need the fitting greenery."

With these words Dean turned and slowly walked off into the night, lighting the way in front of him with the small shine of the flash light in his hand.


	22. Door 22

**"Door 22"**

Completely confused Sam wrapped the scarf around his neck, digging himself into the scratchy wool and continuing to shake his head. For the Love of – something – God, what happened during the last hour? To both of them for that?

He himself felt strangely freed from the whole burden, as if he had taken some drugs. Which definitely wasn't the case, neither drugs nor demon blood fogged his senses, only…then what was it?

Christmas?

Dean's laughter?

This grin, always a little enigmatic, but heartfelt, had become so rare.

"Bobby, we will be back soon!" he called over his shoulder, before the door fell into its lock and overcame three steps with one big step into the middle of the snow. At some time they should deposit boots at Bobby's. Real winter boots, not made from leather, with which one always had to be afraid, to loose one's feet because of the cold, because of not wearing enough socks.

"Wait!" he then pushed out and wondered, how Dean with his short o-shaped legs, could be faster than him. His breath built tight, white clouds in front of his mouth. Dean had the axe on his shoulder, but turned around.

This time he didn't asked, what was going on, but quietly caught up, shoving Dean with his shoulder and forbid himself to wonder. If he started with it, he would drift into pondering and – no.

The frozen snow crunched underneath their feet, while the followed an old familiar pattern of marching in step, which had develop over the years. Only when one of them stumbled over a branch they fell out of step, but came back into it right away, without concentrating on it.

Instead of on the way, Dean illuminated once here and once their. One tree up, then the other down. Without his own flashlight, Sam had to rely on going with the path of the light. Dean would hardly swing the lamp around, when Sam's eyes would follow like the ones of a cat, which sighted on a toy.

A similar event was in the book, which Dean hadn't brought into his wings again.

" Dean?"

The answer came as a soft, distracted 'hmh' back to him. Enough, to show Sam that Dean still hadn't arrived with his thoughts with him, but was registering him.

"The book…ahem…" He paused his words as well as his steps. Dean almost stopped as abruptly, as his steps were the only ones. Sam was glad for it to not become the goal of the light beam, when Dean turned around. Instead the light turned off with a soft clicking and they stayed behind in darkness.

Somewhere far away an owl screamed searching for its hibernating food. The evergreens moved in the wind, moving wood creaked. A few stubborn leaves, which didn't sail down to the ground with their comrades last fall, rustled.

Sam stared up to heaven and wished, he wouldn't have asked. He would get no answer, like always, when it was about something personal.

The stars sent their cool light down and the longer he stared at them, the more his eyes got used to the prevalent light.

"Short before my trip to hell…when it became clear there was nothing to save me –"

"I've tried Dean." Sam interrupted with a toneless mumble.

"– I wanted that you have something, which you could remember. That's all."

Unspoken were more, than those few words. That Dean knew Sam tried, that he wanted to protect his brother, help him, not to take the wrong path, give him something, which took the guilt and pain away.

That was everything.

Nothing more was needed – Sam didn't need to know, why the book never arrived. He didn't even want it. The thought that Dean thought of him and his safety, although he was just about to go to hell…

Sam lowered his gaze until he could feel how he exactly met the one of Dean and then took a step forward. His hand closed around Dean's shoulder, which emerged as a black contour against the light snow and he smirked almost indiscernibly.

"Thanks."

And as soon as he got the chance, he would thank Castiel for saving Dean, where Sam failed.

A black spot flitted by them, claiming their attention and the moment paled. The squirrel climbed up a tree. Sam stepped back and pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. Next he was going to buy gloves or never again spent winter in cold areas.

"What do you think of this one?" He asked and pointed with his chin to a barely six foot tall pine tree.

_**~sss~**_

See you soon._ Hugs,_

Your Christmas Easter Bunnies_ Mia and Lia_


End file.
